


winds so strong

by orphan_account



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Drinking, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Relationship, major pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s late. New Mexico skyline is all scattered nebula and purple mountains. Desert scrub in shadow; the long, cool song of wind cutting through the cicadas. Michael’s soaking in the porchlight, humming a tune under his breath. In the next moment, the door opens.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77





	winds so strong

**Author's Note:**

> gonna be honest, idk what the fkc this is. takes place some vague post s1, w/allusion what i imagine michael will be dealing with post-caulfield trauma. mostly an excuse to imagine them standing near each other with victorian levels of pining and hand clenching restraint. enjoy!

It’s late. New Mexico skyline is all scattered nebula and purple mountains. Desert scrub in shadow; the long, cool song of wind cutting through the cicadas. Michael’s soaking in the porchlight, humming a tune under his breath. In the next moment, the door opens.

“It’s late.”

That’s what Alex says, which is… which is _such_ an _Alex_ thing to say, to state the fucking obvious like that. Nothing in the world matters more than that porch, then; than the man hugging half the front door, leaning against the frame. All the songs and stars could be on fire behind Michael; it’s completely fallen away now.

Fuck if he doesn’t look good, goddamn good, in a really unfair, annoying fucking way. From his bare, shy toes under the gray of his sweats, to the shaggy fit of his old basic training shirt, to his bedhead. Alex’s eyes are squinting and sleepy, which pisses Michael off further.

“No shit,” he says, grinning.

Alex squints a little more. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” Michael swings his arm, bottle of acetone dangling gently from his hand. He takes another sip. “Obviously.”

“Okay then,” says Alex, still perfectly placid. “Are you coming in or did you want to freeze to death on the steps out here?”

“I mean, if I had my choice I’d rather you poison me, honey.” Alex loves when Michael uses a petname. Not that he’d ever fucking admit it, but Michael knows.

Alex looks down, already walking away, door ajar behind him. “Don’t know if I can do that on short notice. Strangulation?”

With a mostly performative stumble, Michael follows him, kicking the door shut.

“Now you’re just teasing me.” Michael lets his voice go low, leering at Alex’s ass long enough that Alex glances back to catch him. He drains the bottle with long, deep gulps. He watches Alex’s eyes, the intensity of them, and tosses the bottle to his recycling bin, missing.

With a sigh, Alex reaches for two mugs, clicks his coffee maker on. Michael flips the bottle in the bin with a flex of power, hoping Alex notices, is impressed. Hoping Alex swoons and falls into his arms like a damsel. Hoping maybe Alex does anything.

“Milk?”

“Yeah.” Michael falls with a huff into a chair at the kitchen island. They listen to the soft hiss of the coffee maker until it switches off.

Two steaming mugs are placed in front of him, one pale with milk. He clutches at it, just inhaling and absorbing its heat through his palms for a long while.

Alex sips, and observes.

Michael milks the moment, making a show of blowing away the steam as he takes in Alex’s cabin. Warm, glowy lamps; old artwork leftover on the walls; the potato peeler on a drying rack. Did Alex peel a potato? Does Alex cook? What does he make--would he cook for Michael, if he asked?

“Guerin,” starts Alex, leaning forward slowly, brows coming together in concern. Not dangerously, Michael still has some space between the dark slashes, still some patience to burn.

“You got any food in this place?” He pops out of the chair, taking the mug with him in one hand. Alex’s sigh echoes the fridge as Michael rifles through. No potatoes. “This is sad,” he informs, pulling out a bag of wilted celery. “Alex. This is really sad. Do you run on batteries nowadays, or?”

“Sorry Guerin, I’ll stock up for the next time you drop by unannounced.”

Michael pets the pale yellow celery leaves, dropping the stalks on Alex’s counter. Half-turned away, he can still clock the edge of space between Alex’s brows. In moments like these, Michael’s traitorous brain only tells him one thing: _you’ve touched that skin, you’ve kissed him there, you know what he tastes like at any degree or minute._

“Yeah.” Half-turn to full turn--he gulps the mug three-quarters empty and sets it in the sink, staring down. Tiny shred of potato peel stuck in a drain hole. He imagines the line of Alex’s back, curved over this sink, hands sliding sure and steady, methodical as he is with everything else.

“Michael.” He can’t breathe, Alex’s heat behind him, his hand weighing Michael’s shoulder so damn gently.

“Just--had to see you. Tonight.” Alex waits--Michael can’t breathe, he can’t speak--but, eventually: “Had a nightmare. Y’know, and I just--had to see you. Make sure.”

“I’m here.”

Michael thinks of anything else but the tender, scraping sound of Alex’s quiet voice. Alex’s warm thumb rolling circles against Michael’s shoulder blade.

He turns, immediately caught in Alex’s breath, eyes honey dark and sweet, those brows high and held apart with worry. His traitorous brain fills in all the blanks of this moment, suspended high-wire above the air, trapped without a net and only one way across. His gaze drops for a moment to Alex’s mouth, stomach swooping; don’t look down.

“I should--”

“Right yeah--”

The moment fractures around them; they pull apart. Michael pauses at the door, scrubbing a hand through his hair before setting his hat straight.

“Thanks for the coffee.” Quarter-turn back, just enough to see Alex’s stifled yawn, eyelids hanging low, two crescent moons. His small smile.

“Anytime.”

In the next moment, the door opens. It’s late--New Mexico chill, whispering mesquite, cosmic fireworks scattered and static above him. But the warmth inside his chest carries him all the way home.


End file.
